“Well, wait till you hear this. His name is Lucas Slade, and Minnie said when he was a teenager, he got mixed up with the wrong crowd and started getting into trouble—stealing cars, drinking, and then taking drugs. His parents got so tired of bailing him out of juvenile court and paying lawyers that they all but disowned him. His daddy sent him off to some sort of military school, hoping they’d straighten him out, but Lucas got himself expelled. He left home when he was seventeen and never came back.
“Out of the blue, he showed up at his youngest sister’s house a few weeks ago and demanded money. When she refused, he beat her up something terrible and left with all her jewelry and her wallet. His own sister! Isn’t that dreadful?”
Beads of perspiration bloomed on Oletta’s forehead. “Yes, it surely is,” she said, avoiding my aunt’s eyes as she closed the bag of potato peels, one slow fold at a time.
“Now, here’s where it really gets interesting. It was that very same day that Lucas went to the hospital and claimed that he was attacked at Tybee. Well, Minnie said when a detective went to the hospital and started questioning him, his story just didn’t add up. One thing led to another and apparently Lucas up and snapped. He went after the detective’s throat with his bare hands! He was hauled off to jail and the police got a search warrant for the apartment he lived in. When they went there, guess what they found?”
I stiffened. Oletta kept her eyes on the counter, rubbing the same spot with a paper towel, over and over. “What’d they find?”
“Drugs! They found a bag full of jewelry and several guns too. Remember that man who owned the watch shop over on Liberty Street—you know, the one who got shot in a robbery this past spring?”
Oletta nodded. “I remember.”
Well, Minnie’s son-in-law, Wade, works over at the courthouse, and he said the police found evidence that it was Lucas who robbed and shot that poor man. Wade told Minnie that Lucas Slade will most likely be in jail for a long, long time.”
“Sure hope so,” Oletta said, and I could see her shoulders sag with relief.
“I can’t imagine how devastated and shamed his parents must be. I feel sorry for them. But as far as I’m concerned,” my aunt said with a sniff, “Lucas Slade got his comeuppance, and not a day too soon.”
Aunt Tootie turned her full attention to me. “Cecelia Rose, whole families can be ripped apart by drugs. It’s happening more and more these days, and it scares me something awful. If anyone ever tries to get you to take drugs, I want you to promise that you won’t do it. Not ever.”
I swallowed hard and said, “I promise.”
The kettle whistled, and Aunt Tootie lifted it from the burner and poured water into her cup. “This just goes to show that even with fine, upstanding parents and the best educational opportunities available, some children fall to ruin. Well,” she said, dunking the tea bag up and down, “I think I’ll go into the den and take a look at the mail. Oh, and Oletta, I don’t want you standing at the bus stop in this downpour. When you’re ready to go home, I’ll drive you.”
“Thank you. That’d be nice.”
“You’re welcome.” Aunt Tootie took her tea and headed out the door.
Oletta and I looked at each other, and when the sound of my aunt’s footsteps faded, I rose from the chair. Oletta opened her arms, I opened mine, and we met each other like two puzzle pieces sliding into place.
“Praise the Good Lord,” she whispered into my hair.
And I whispered back, “Amen.”
Twenty-one
From the day Aunt Tootie delivered the news of Lucas Slade’s fate, Oletta began talking to Jesus as if he were sitting right there in the kitchen. One morning I came down for breakfast and heard her say, “Thank you for answering my prayers. I’ll never doubt you again, sweet Jesus. No, I surely won’t.”
It got to the point where I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her whipping up an extra serving of scrambled eggs and adding another place setting to the table so Jesus could have himself a feast. She was so happy, she’d tune in the radio to a gospel station and sing her heart out while she washed dishes.
Besides talking to Jesus on a regular basis, Oletta also began wearing the hat pin she’d found at Tybee Island—sometimes in the back of her headscarf, sometimes at the side above her ear. When Aunt Tootie asked her about it, Oletta said it was some old thing she’d found. But I figured she viewed it as a symbol of prayers answered.
One day I passed Oletta on the stairs. She was carrying a stack of fresh laundry in her arms, her hat pin bobbing with each step she took. She grinned broadly and said, “Don’t forget to show the Lord your grateful heart today.”
I smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
After gathering a basket and a pair of Aunt Tootie’s old gardening gloves, I headed outside, and from the open windows I heard Oletta’s powerful voice belt out the words to “Amazing Grace.”
The soil was still damp from all the rain, and the weeds I pulled slid from the earth with nothing more than a light tug. In no time I had worked my way through Aunt Tootie’s perennial garden, so I decided to go ahead and weed her herb patch too.
I was on my knees, enjoying the fresh breeze and birdsong, when the sound of tinkling bells floated through the air. I rocked back on my heels and listened. The tinkling came again, as light and happy as laughter, but from where I didn’t know. I pulled a few more weeds and threw them into the basket. Just as I moved to the next row, I heard Miz Goodpepper’s throaty laugh.
“Hello, Miss CeeCee,” she said, appearing through the opening in the hedge.
“Hi.”
It was impossible not to gawk at her outfit. Like bread dough rising in a warm pan, her milky-white breasts overflowed from a purple bikini top. Tied at her waist was a fi lmy red scarf that floated over black cigarette pants. Looped over her middle fingers and thumbs were little golden disks. She tapped them together, sending the happy sound of tiny bells into the air.
“What are those?”
“Zills, though some people call them finger cymbals. I just love them. Their chime is so delightful, don’t you think?” she said, tapping them again. “I found them at an estate sale. And I found a treasure for you too.”
I rose to my feet. “For me? What kind of treasure?”
“Come see,” she said, her laughter luring me from the garden like the Pied Piper.
I pulled off my gloves, tossed them into the basket, and ran after her.
Across her yard, through the kitchen, and down the hall she led me, her red scarf flowing around her legs with each step she took. We entered the living room, where a cardboard box sat on a silky Oriental rug.
Miz Goodpepper lowered herself down on the floor and removed her zills. “So many wonderful treasures I have here.”
I sat across from her, flushed with excitement as I peered into the box.
She reached inside and pulled out a silver brush and comb set. “No, these aren’t for you,” she said in a teasing tone. Again she reached inside the box, removing a compact that was shaped like a fan. “This beauty is crafted from malachite and enamel,” she said in breathy amazement. “It was made in France and signed by the artisan. See the date on the back?” she said, handing it to me.
“Wow, 1884. It sure is old.” I smoothed my fingertips over its cool surface and held it to the light. “It’s beautiful,” I said, handing it back to Miz Goodpepper.
“Buck bought it for me. He’s so generous.”
“Who’s he?
“Buck Preston is a friend of mine. He lives in Texas, but whenever he’s up here on business, we’ll go to dinner and the occasional estate sale.”
There was no mistaking the fondness that glowed in her eyes, but whether it was for the compact or the man named Buck, I couldn’t tell.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Miz Goodpepper let out a brief laugh. “Oh, I enjoy Buck immensely, but I wouldn’t say he’s my boyfriend. I swear that man could charm the fangs right out of a
rattlesnake’s mouth. Once, when I caught him in an outright lie, I was so angry I told him I never wanted to see him again. Well, he looked at me from the shadow of that ten-gallon hat he always wears and said, ‘Thelma Rae, c’mon now, honey, don’t be mad at me. I don’t mean to lie, I just remember big.’ ”
Miz Goodpepper and I laughed.
“But lately,” she said, wiggling her bare toes, “I find all men to be very much like wearing high-heeled shoes—I love how pretty they make me feel, but by the end of the night I can’t wait to get rid of them.”
She set the compact aside and winked. “All right, I believe there’s a treasure for you somewhere in the box.” She dug through wads of newspaper and removed a tissue-wrapped package. “For you, darling.”
By this time the anticipation was killing me. I ripped off the wrapping with abandon to reveal an old book. Bound in deep plum-colored leather, its title was The Eugene Field Book. Carefully I opened it; the pages were dry to the touch and had a faint odor of mildew. The first page read:VERSES, STORIES AND LETTERS
FOR SCHOOL READING
At the bottom of the page was the publication date: 1898. I leafed through the stiff yellowing pages, then looked at Miz Goodpepper. “Thank you.”
“It’s a first edition and quite rare,” she said, sliding the book from my fingers. “I adore Eugene Field. He was a masterful poet and storyteller for children. But I find his works can be read on many levels. He was wonderfully eccentric. Look at this,” she said, turning to a photograph in the book. “This is his doll collection.”
I moved closer and peered down at the picture. “I’ve never heard of a man collecting dolls.”
She handed me the book and nodded. “Eugene Field had marvelous dolls—toys too. His collection is displayed in his old house in Missouri. My grandmother introduced me to his writing when I was a little girl, and I’ve loved him ever since. Grandmother adored books, especially those written for children. She said something to me when I was about your age, and those words have been my daily mantra ever since.”
Miz Goodpepper leaned forward and looked deep into my eyes. “My grandmother said, ‘Don’t grow up too fast, darling. Age is inevitable, but if you nurture a childlike heart, you’ll never ever grow old.’”
I hugged the book to my chest and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Now, how about some refreshments?” she said, grabbing her zills off the floor and rising to her feet.
I took my book and followed her into the kitchen. After setting out a plate of ginger cookies, she poured me a glass of orange soda, then pulled a bottle of wine from the cupboard, removing the cork with a pop.
“My grandmother was so creative. I’ll never forget the day she and I painted the top of her dining table white. We used plain old house paint and just slopped it all over the beautiful mahogany. When my grandfather saw what we’d done he pitched a fit. But Grandmother just laughed.
“Then, every time they entertained dinner guests, she’d place a pencil next to the silverware. Guests were asked to write something or sign their names on the tabletop. When it was full of all sorts of clever sayings and signatures, my grandmother varnished it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Though it sure sounded interesting, it also seemed a little crazy.
Miz Goodpepper poured wine into a goblet and took a drink. “But after a few years the pencil marks faded and the varnish cracked, so my grandfather had the table stripped and refinished.”
“Too bad your grandmother didn’t give those people Magic Markers instead of pencils.”
“Well, had there been markers back in those days, that table would be worth a fortune. Will Rogers signed that table, so did Ethel Merman. Oh, Cecelia, you would have loved my grandmother,” Miz Goodpepper said, dunking a cookie into her glass of wine. “She was so alive and full of original ideas, especially for that era. While other women were busy being proper, she was busy cultivating her spirit.”
Miz Goodpepper bit into the wine-soaked cookie and let out a small moan of pleasure. “I can’t tell you how many times my grandmother and I danced barefoot in the rain. She was so much fun.”
I smiled up at Miz Goodpepper. “Are you a lot like her?”
“I hope so,” she said, slipping her fingers through the loops on her zills and admiring them. “Grandmother would have adored these.”
While I finished the last of my cookies, I thought about Momma, how she twirled through the house in her red shoes, singing at the top of her lungs, and how delighted she was to wave and blow kisses to her imaginary admirers. And I thought about Eugene Field’s doll collection, and how Miz Goodpepper’s grandmother had danced in the rain.
I licked crumbs from my fingers and looked at Miz Goodpepper thoughtfully. “What’s the difference between eccentric and crazy?”
She lifted her hands above her head, tapped her zills together, and danced out the door. From over her shoulder she laughed and called out, “Nobody knows!”
Twenty-two
Aunt Tootie was drinking coffee and reading the Sunday newspaper on the porch. From the open window I heard the pages rustling and the clink of her cup meeting the saucer. As I dried the last of our breakfast dishes, she walked into the kitchen and said, “Cecelia, let’s go for a drive in the country. There’s a farmer over in Tattnall County who has wonderful produce. Oletta’s had an itch to put up preserves and she’s always favored Mr. Dooley’s peaches.”
“Okay,” I said, drying my hands. We put on our hats and off we went.
As we walked into the garage, I thought of how much fun it was when Nadine had put the top down, how the world looked bigger and brighter, and how the wind tickled my face. I helped Aunt Tootie push open the big doors, and when we climbed into the car, I looked at her and said, “Could we put the top down?”
She was quiet for a moment, and I figured she’d say no, but when she started the engine, she let out a little laugh. “Oh, why not?” She backed the car into the alley and pressed the switch. As the top folded into place, she grinned and looked into the sky. “Cecelia, this was such a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it. This would please Taylor no end. All right, here we go.”
As was her custom, Aunt Tootie talked a mile a minute as we headed out of town. “That dress is precious. I think pink-and-white checks are happy, don’t you?”
I smoothed my hands along the crisp cotton fabric and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I love all the clothes you’ve given me. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Now, I’d like to talk with you about a few things that are important.”
“Okay,” I said, shifting in the seat to face her.
“I’ve had several conversations with your father, and I’ve asked him to give me full custody of you. Last week he agreed to sign the papers. It takes awhile to go through the courts, but I’ve got my attorney working on it.”
“Really? Does that mean I’d belong to you, like real family?”
“You are real family, honey. And yes, the legal papers would mean that we belong to each other. Your father wants the best for you.”
I lowered my eyes and mumbled, “No, he doesn’t.”
How can she think he wants the best for me? Why can’t she see the truth? Why can’t she see that he’s a no-good liar who doesn’t care about anyone but himself?
“Cecelia Rose, your father didn’t agree to give me custody because he doesn’t love you. I believe he agreed because he does. Now, I know he’s made some terrible mistakes, and he wasn’t there when you and your mother needed him most. But as flawed as he is, I know he loves you.”
This was one of those times when Aunt Tootie’s eternal optimism grated on my nerves. She was always so chronically cheery and chirpy, so willing to look at the good in people that she ignored the bad parts—the parts that were unforgivable, the parts that were so raw they would never heal.
I looked at her and bleated, “He doesn’t care about me one bit. He never did.”
“People are aware of their
shortcomings, though most times they don’t want to admit it. Your father knows he made a mess of things, and I believe this is his way of trying to do right by you. I really do.”
Barbed words formed on my tongue, and I couldn’t stop them from leaping from my mouth like spiny toads. “I hate him!”
Aunt Tootie reached for my hand. “Cecelia, no. Please don’t hate. Don’t ever hate.”
I yanked my hand away, anger flaring on my cheeks. “He has a girlfriend in Detroit. That’s where he was all those years when he left me alone to take care of Momma.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sure that’s just a terrible rumor. Taylor traveled a great deal because of his business, and there were times when he’d be gone for over a week. Believe me, I know certain people questioned it. Small-minded people can be so vicious and—”
“No. He told me so. He admitted it the day he brought my books.”
“What?” Aunt Tootie’s eyebrows shot up so high I could see them arch above her sunglasses. She pursed her lips and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
“His girlfriend even called the house. I think Momma knew he had a girlfriend too.”
Aunt Tootie shook her head. “Oh, no.”
I looked down at my hands and picked at my cuticles. Before I knew it, the story spilled from my lips.
It happened the winter before Momma died. I had bundled up and walked to the grocery store to buy some things for dinner. The wind had blown the snow into great white drifts, and the sound of shovels scraping across the sidewalks fi lled the crisp, biting air. When I arrived home, I heard Momma talking. She sounded angry. I put down the bag of groceries, peeled off my coat and boots, and headed up the stairs.
As I moved down the hallway, I heard her say, “How dare you tell me what to do. I’ll show you. You no-good Yankee bastard.”
I peered into my mother’s bedroom. She was sitting on her vanity bench wearing a faded flannel nightgown and her red high-heeled shoes. Draped over her lap was a pair of my dad’s pants.